


mine right beside it

by flowermasters



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Belligerent Sexual Tension, Bickering, Car Sex, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mission Fic, Public Sex, Sambucky Bingo 2019, exhibitionism to taste, sam is wound a little tight; bucky is a sly fuck; this is my emotional support dynamic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:28:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21827479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowermasters/pseuds/flowermasters
Summary: Sam joined the military and didn’t balk when they asked him to strap on a glorified jetpack and take it for a test run; he’s disappointed with himself, but not surprised, when he opens his mouth and says, “Oh, goddamn it, fine.”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 23
Kudos: 235





	mine right beside it

**Author's Note:**

> "You gave him a shield and a purpose. I'm giving him good dick on demand. We are not the same." -Bucky Barnes, probably
> 
> [Here's a link to my Bingo card.](https://66.media.tumblr.com/b6124acf3e531c3527ce604fd76294b3/tumblr_q2mwylsuu01rs54bxo1_400.jpg)
> 
> For the square: "car sex"

Barnes is in an unusually good mood. Not that he’s usually in a _bad_ mood, but rarely is he so downright cheerful. He’s that way all through breakfast, ordering a tall stack of pancakes and humming tunelessly along to the top forty playing overhead and smiling randomly at Sam even when Sam hasn’t done anything to merit a smile. Then he spends most of the three-hour car ride napping, one of _Sam_ ’s baseball caps pulled low over his eyes.

Sam didn’t sleep well last night; he rarely does when a mission isn’t going well, and their last mission was a dud, two weeks of pointless stakeouts and long hours all for the cops to take care of things quite handily on their own. They’re on their way to rendezvous with Sharon to figure out their next move, see if they can assist with yet more covert ops.

Bucky _had_ offered to drive, though, so unfortunately Sam can’t resent him for napping without feeling like a hypocrite. 

The route they’re on is fairly boring—first the interstate, then miles and miles of pine forest on a four-lane highway—and Sam zones out, operating the vehicle on autopilot. He doesn’t even realize Bucky’s woken up until he speaks, his voice quiet and sleep-rough. “How much farther?”

Sam eyes the GPS display on his phone, currently mounted on the dash. “Little over thirty minutes.”

Bucky nods, and Sam can tell he’s being observed for a moment, able to both see and feel Bucky’s eyes on him; finally, Sam has to ask, “Something wrong with my face?”

“Mm, not at all,” Bucky says. “You mind pullin’ over, darlin’?”

“What for? Are you alright?”

Bucky points to a turn-off a hundred yards ahead, a side road that, in an area this rural, probably doesn’t lead anywhere in particular. “Right there would be fine.”

“You can’t hold it a few more minutes?” Sam says. City boy or not, Bucky is from a time when pissing on the side of the highway was a bit more laissez-faire.

“Don’t need to pee,” Bucky says. “Just want to stretch my legs. Then I want you to get in the backseat.”

Sam glances over at him, startled by this. Bucky just regards him with a mild expression, that goddamn hat still pulled down so that he has to tilt his chin up very slightly in order to see unobstructed. He looks ridiculous, Sam thinks, and handsome. That’s the quandary with Barnes in a nutshell; that Sam is unfailingly attracted to him, no matter what he does.

“What are you talking about?” Sam asks, frowning, as he eases his foot on the brake.

“’Course, you can stay up front if you want,” Bucky says. “I can blow you up here. But I think”—he turns his head slightly, giving the backseat a once-over—“I can fuck you back there.”

Sam is too busy making the turn to properly react to this; he just sort of gawks, his eyes flicking from Bucky to the road, as they turn off the main highway. 

“Are you out of your mind?” Sam asks, now cruising down a two-lane road, rough asphalt rumbling under the wheels.

“It’ll be fun,” Bucky says, as though he’s suggested they go for a walk later, maybe catch a movie.

Sam can feel his eyes bugging out slightly. “It’s _illegal_.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “You were a fugitive for how long, exactly?”

Sam remembers, finally, that he turned off the main road for a reason, and he slows down and eases off onto the grassy shoulder, letting the car come to a stop. “You,” he says, “are a lunatic. Get out and stretch your legs, old man.”

“Suit yourself,” Bucky says with a shrug. Sam watches, still in a state of disbelief, as Bucky gets out of the car and takes a few steps towards the treeline, rolling his shoulders as he walks. 

Sam refuses to entertain the idea on principle. Never mind that it’s been days, because they’ve both been feeling useless and exhausted and stir-crazy, and never mind that it _would_ be fun, in a way that the closet daredevil in him enjoys, at least in theory. Never mind that the flex of Bucky’s shoulders as he stretches and the ripple of muscles in his back through the fabric of his shirt are both fairly compelling.

Bucky takes his sweet time, ambling about in the shin-high weeds like they’re on a pleasure cruise here, instead of over thirty minutes out from a rendezvous. Sam is about to honk the horn at him when Bucky turns, strolls back to the car, and bends down so that his face is level with Sam’s. He mimes for Sam to roll down the window.

Sam does, begrudgingly. “What,” he says.

Bucky leans through the window, resting his forearms on the car door; his shoulders are too broad to allow him to do much more than poke his head in. Sunlight gleams off the vibranium arm, exposed for once on a sunny, warm day like today. He only ever shows it off around Sam, actually. “My offer still stands,” Bucky says, drawling this like he’s volunteered to go to the goddamn grocery store.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sam says.

“You’re in no mood for that, I know,” Bucky says. Then he raises his eyebrows slightly. “No one’s going to drive by, I promise, not out here in the fucking sticks. C’mon, Sam, live a little.”

They’re still technically in view of the highway, which, though admittedly not well-traveled, is _traveled_. Anyone could come along and decide to investigate a parked car. But now Bucky’s made it a goddamn challenge, whether he knows it or not—and Sam is pretty sure he knows it, because of course he knows Sam is powerless in the face of a dare. Barnes is so fucking ridiculous, absolutely insane, and annoyingly sexy, staring at Sam with the barest hint of a smile on his face like he knows if he overplays his hand he risks Sam really freaking out on him but he just can’t help but fucking _smirk_ — 

Sam joined the military and didn’t balk when they asked him to strap on a glorified jetpack and take it for a test run; he’s disappointed with himself, but not surprised, when he opens his mouth and says, “Oh, goddamn it, fine.”

Bucky’s brows draw together slightly. “Is that a ‘fine,’ or a ‘yes’?” he asks, but Sam is already halfway out of the car.

“It's a yes,” he says to Bucky over the roof of the car, “but you better make this worth my while, Barnes.”

Bucky touches his chest with one hand as though wounded, but he’s grinning. “Really,” he says, “when have I not?”

Sam is really trying to hold on to his annoyance here, but he’s already sort of giddy as he gets in the backseat, just for the adrenaline rush of actually agreeing to do this. Bucky gets in on the other side, and as soon as he does, Sam realizes exactly how cramped the backseat of this car is; it wasn’t designed for anybody to fuck in, of course, but it definitely wasn’t designed for two well-sized grown men to fuck in. 

“This is a terrible idea,” Sam says, as Bucky leans in, “there’s hardly room to move back here, let alone—”

“How about,” Bucky says, still grinning, his mouth inches from Sam’s, the smug fuck, “you let me worry about it, huh.”

Bucky kisses him with surprising delicacy—just a peck, light and flirty. Sam chases the kiss without really thinking about it, following Bucky’s mouth with a soft noise; he can’t even remember when they last kissed. Their last fuck was nearly a week ago, he realizes abruptly, and that was just a handjob each before they both fell asleep. It occurs to him, as he makes another needy noise, that he might’ve been missing this.

Bucky gives in, lets Sam kiss him, puts his hand gently on the back of Sam’s head. His other hand comes to rest first on Sam’s knee, then inches a little bit higher, halting at mid-thigh.

“I’m not your prom date,” Sam says when they break for air. “You don’t have to worry about getting up under my skirt.”

Bucky blinks at him. “You’ve never worn a skirt for me before,” he says, innocent, and then grins when Sam curses at him and kisses him again.

Bucky puts his hand over Sam’s fly and Sam pushes up instinctively, the careful press of a vibranium palm over his clothed dick no less exhilarating for its familiarity. Bucky pulls back slightly as if to observe this, like he wants to catalogue Sam’s reactions. He’s not grinning anymore; despite the full sunlight streaming in the windows, his pupils are dilated, his expression suddenly, nakedly hungry in a way that makes Sam’s skin prickle all over. 

“I want you to sit in my lap,” Bucky says, giving Sam a little squeeze as he hardens. “Facing forward. That sound good?”

“Okay,” Sam says, although he’d sort of expected to face Bucky for this; then again, he hadn’t really expected this at all, so he supposes he ought to roll with the punches. 

He lets Bucky unzip his fly, then they spend about a minute shuffling about the car. Sam’s head bonks against the roof no less than three times as he gets his pants down and straddles Bucky’s thighs, and he curses with increasing vigor each time. He finally has to awkwardly stoop forward, head between the seats and hands braced on either one, his range of movement uncomfortably restricted. 

In the meantime, Bucky leans over slightly to reach Sam’s backpack, which is sitting in the floorboard behind the passenger seat for easy access while behind the wheel; Sam keeps a gun and his passport in there and, purely coincidentally, lube.

Bucky doesn’t waste time with the prep, pressing two slick fingers in, although Sam does have to say, in between heavy breaths, “There are condoms in there, if you think I’m riding around with your cum in my—”

“Relax, I’m getting to it,” Bucky says, “although I like the sound of that. Another time, maybe.”

Sam scoffs, but it turns into a shaky exhale as Bucky pulls his fingers out. More fumbling about as Bucky scrounges for a condom, then he’s pushing in, a strangely blessed relief even though it’s only been a few minutes, really, since Sam actually agreed to this. He still can’t really believe that he did, can’t believe that he’s sitting here, sweating in his clothes, thighs splayed over Bucky’s, letting Bucky fuck him in the back of a car in broad daylight—

Someone on the main highway revs their engine, loud as hell, a big truck or a semi, and Sam tenses up automatically, snapping his eyes open. Bucky makes a pleased humming sound. “Yeah,” he murmurs, moving his hands to Sam’s hips. “Like that.” 

“Shut _up_ ,” Sam says, “just do it already, Jesus—”

“What, you scared someone’s going to drive by and see Captain fuckin’ America making time in the back of a car?” Bucky says, finally starting to rock his hips. “No, darlin’. Just me, I promise.”

He’s teasing, but his thumbs are also rubbing light circles over Sam’s hipbones, a tender, possibly unconscious gesture that communicates a certain amount of protectiveness, possessiveness. With this little room to move, Bucky can’t do much more than thrust up in short, shunting movements, but the angle alone sends pulses of pleasure through Sam with each push. He lets his head hang forward, heavy. His thighs tremble and twitch on either side of Bucky’s; he moans, suddenly and strangely helpless. This isn’t going to take long.

“It’s alright,” Bucky says, soft, even as he hitches his hips up more sharply. The open zipper of his jeans bites into Sam’s skin, painful, pleasurable. “I know you need this sometimes. Need somebody to fuck you how you like it. Keeps you from getting too caught up in the shit.”

“Not just somebody,” Sam says, after a few panting breaths, and Bucky groans like he’s said something dirty.

“No,” he agrees. “And don’t I always take care of you?”

Sam doesn’t say _yes_ , but he moans again, louder this time. A breeze wafts in, and it suddenly occurs to him that they’ve left the passenger window down; not only could somebody drive by and see them, glimpse their figures through the windows and guess immediately what they were doing, anyone could walk up and _hear_ , too, hear him like this and know that—

But then Bucky moves his left hand, presses down between Sam’s shoulder blades to get him to double over more, giving Bucky more leverage to thrust, and Sam forgets the strange thrill of risk running through him. Bucky’s hand trails down his spine, takes the hem of his shirt and hikes it up as high as he can, and Bucky gives a pleased sigh. He likes Sam’s back, if his tendency to come on it is any indication, and Sam shivers all over, that much closer for the vague idea of being used for Bucky’s pleasure. 

“See?” Bucky says, husky. “You're sweet for me when you’re like this. Sweet _on_ me, too, even though you won’t admit it.”

“Bucky,” Sam says, trembling, wishing he hated this and failing miserably at it; Bucky comes for that, groaning, maybe because he can tell how much Sam loves it.

His thrusts still for a moment, but he doesn’t go soft, not immediately. Sam hangs in the balance, starting to tense up again, needing to come. Bucky doesn’t make him wait too long. His right hand slinks around and takes hold of Sam’s dick. He thrusts up again, and Sam groans, surprised; sometimes he forgets that Bucky could fuck him for hours and still not break a sweat. Maybe Sam will let him one of these days.

“Sweet thing,” Bucky murmurs, fond, and leans forward to press a kiss against the highest part of Sam’s back he can reach, the contact muffled by the rough weave of Sam’s polo but no less arresting for it. He keeps grinding his hips in that dirty rhythm, and Sam comes in short order, shaking and gasping, relieved.

Sam just sits there for a few moments, trying to recover, and then Bucky takes him by the hips again and says, “Lie back.”

Sam does, leaning back in Bucky’s lap until they’re back-to-chest, even though they’re both much too sweaty for it to be entirely pleasurable. Bucky’s still in him, which is pleasant for now but will soon become less so. Nevertheless, Sam just sits there, breath slowing, until Bucky manages to squirm enough to get a hand in his jeans pocket. He pulls out a handkerchief, a charmingly old-fashioned habit he keeps, and goes about trying to mop up the cum on Sam’s stomach. There’s also a stain, Sam notes, on the carpet in the floorboard. 

“Gross,” he says. “This is a _rental_. We put down a deposit.”

“I’ll show you a deposit,” Bucky mutters, and Sam grimaces.

Sam eases himself off Bucky’s lap and goes gingerly about putting his clothes to rights, still overwarm but not-unpleasantly loose and languid. It really is a nice day outside; another gentle breeze wafts in through the open window. 

He watches as Bucky takes the condom and then leans over towards the door, clearly intending to toss it outside. “That’s littering,” Sam says. “Besides, maybe you shouldn’t leave super-soldier cum lying around.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and lets go of the door handle. “It’s spunk, sweetheart, not toxic waste.” 

“You clearly haven’t tasted it, then,” Sam says, and Bucky makes an indignant face. They hold each other’s gaze for a matter of seconds, and then Bucky’s expression cracks open into a smile, and Sam bursts out laughing.

"Christ," Sam says. "How _old_ are we, man."

"That's kind of a loaded question," Bucky says, and Sam cracks up again.

When they’ve both quieted down, Bucky finds a napkin to wrap the condom in until they can dispose of it and finally zips up his goddamn pants. Sam watches from the other side of the backseat. He’s not sure why he’s lingering so; they have a schedule to keep, after all, but his sense of urgency has been doused quite nicely with an orgasm. 

Bucky seems to be aware of this, if his sideways look in Sam’s direction is any indication. “You feeling better?” he asks. 

His voice is soft, not a tease; he means it. “Yeah,” Sam admits. “I’m going to be useless the rest of the day, though.”

Bucky reaches for the door handle, and Sam does the same. He’s ended up on the passenger side, and watches from outside the car as Bucky goes for the driver’s door. “Well,” Bucky says over the roof of the car, smiling, “you can let me do all the talking today. I can handle that.”

“Can you?” Sam asks archly, and snickers when Bucky flips him off before getting in the driver’s seat.

Thirty minutes, Sam decides once they’re back in motion, is enough time for a catnap; maybe he’ll even take a real nap later, if Sharon lets them off easy. He slouches back in the seat, still filled with an easy lassitude, and smiles when Bucky reaches over and squeezes his knee, just because.


End file.
